Page 91 of Wounded Soul
Whoever had done this had been waiting for her.
Inhaling hurt like a bitch, but she breathed in enough air to get an idea of who’d done this.
Fucking Peter.
Lys was actually surprised he’d deigned to do his own dirty work.
Blood stuck to her fingers, and her T-shirt was sodden with it. She was going to die there on the floor if she didn’t do something.
Her phone had been in her pocket when she’d run down here, but when she patted the front of her jeans, she came up empty.
Had Peter taken it?
Of course he fucking had. He wasn’t stupid enough to leave it behind.
Rolling her head to the side, Lys tried to get her bearings. She was only a few feet from the door; he must have jumped her as she came through it. Something caught her eye about a foot above her head and to the left.
Her phone, or what was left of it.
Peter hadn’t taken it with him—probably not wanting to get caught with it—but he’d made damn sure she couldn’t use it. The screen was smashed, bits and pieces lay around it as though he’d stamped on it and ground it under his heal.
Lys closed her eyes for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. She’d known he wouldn’t have left her a way to communicate but the disappointment gripped her all the same. It was brand new too. Not that it was a huge concern considering she was about to die, but for fuck’s sake, she’d only just swapped everything over from her old—
My old fucking phone that should be around here somewhere.
It hurt to move.
Every inch Lys shuffled towards her mangled iPhone felt like someone tearing at her chest, but finally her fingers touched the broken pieces, and she tugged the shell of it towards her.
Please be here, please be intact.
It felt like hours passed before Lys managed to locate the tiny SIM card, and she sobbed in relief, taking a moment to regroup. She felt weak, her strength ebbing away along with the blood trickling out of her chest. Much like if she were human, there would come a point where she’d lose too much to be saved.
With the SIM grasped tightly in her palm, Lys tried to remember where she’d put her old phone.
Please don’t be on the other side of the room. I’ll never fucking make it.
In her mind she pictured her bedroom.
Bed, bedside table, wardrobe, chest of drawers. It wouldn’t be in the en suite, but anywhere else was fair game. Lys wasn’t the tidiest when it came to her room.
Think, Lys!
If it wasn’t out on the bedside table or on top of the drawers, then there was only one place it could be. The bottom drawer where she shoved all the crap she couldn’t be arsed to deal with. It had to be in there.
Tilting her head, she eyed the drawers where they stood next to the door. They were only about five feet away from where she lay, but it might as well have been fifty.
Her body ached just looking at the distance, but it was either try and make it or die anyway.
Sliding the SIM into her pocket for safe keeping, Lys grit her teeth and began the painful shuffle over towards the chest of drawers, one excruciating inch at a time.
It hurt. It hurt so bad her fangs slid out of their own accord, tearing another sob out of her, but she carried on. The distance gradually got less and less until with one final push, her hands closed around the handle.
It took three attempts to get the drawer to move—Lys’s strength slipping away faster now—but eventually she got it open enough to fit her hand inside.
Now to find the fucking thing.
She almost cried in relief when her hand closed around the hard case of her old phone.
